


Shall Come Fulfillment To Our Dreams

by gala_apples



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Gym Class Heroes, My Chemical Romance, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Breathplay, Dating, Multi, Polyamory, Recovering Drug Addict, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-28
Updated: 2012-08-28
Packaged: 2017-11-13 01:39:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/498007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Though Mk is initially reluctant to reincarnate, when the Receiver forces him to fulfill, he finds himself liking being corporeal. After all, what’s not to like? He’s got a fantastic brother, two geeky boyfriends, two kinky lovers, and a musician best friend. Out of all lives he could have fulfilled, he picked a pretty awesome one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shall Come Fulfillment To Our Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Written for polygamybigbang. Wilde_Stallyn made me art, [here.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/328526)

Mk hasn’t returned to Earth in a long time. He doesn’t have to. He’s got every thought he wants without leaving. He doesn’t need to fulfill to be happy, he just needs to think. Gr does enough fulfilling for them both. Sometimes Mk thinks Gr never stops to think, just decides in an instant to fulfill and goes. 

::I’m going to be a horse.::

::Yeah?::

It’s hardly the first time Gr’s been an animal. He’s not one that spends nearly every reincarnation as an animal, but he likes it.

::I’m gonna be a horse trained to help handicapped kids.:: Before Mk can focus, process the idea, and help him generate more details Gr submits his request and is gone. 

Mk thinks. He would be an Appaloosa. One with a blanket with spots pattern. Deep chestnut for his face and front half, a pure white blanket over his hips, not even a hint of cream. Most Appaloosas have spots the same colour as their base, he would be the same. His mane would be well combed, long and useful against bugs.

Gr gets back before he’s even done creating his saddle. All Mk’s sure of is that it would have dark stitching; handcrafted and well used. Gr immediately begins to tell him of his experience, never mind the common politeness of asking if you’re interrupting a thought. Even here, when he’s uncreated, supposedly characteristicless, Gr has the urge to share.

It’s not long though, before he cuts off. Mk can sense the change in him, knows he’s found a new thought before he expresses it. ::I’m going to be in a female body. But I’ll remember very clearly being a male. I won’t put up with it, and I’ll start changing myself. My dad will be fine with it, my mom will be cruel.::

Gr submits and leaves to fulfill. Mk isn’t surprised when he’s nearly silent when he comes back. While everybody does a cross-gender fulfill, many stop at just one. There is a very slim section of Earth’s cycle that allows for kindness and empathy towards who corporeal people call the transgendered. Gr set himself up for it, requesting the emotion in his submission, and surely the fulfillment has made his experience-wealth all the deeper for future thinking. Mk cannot feel bad about his lingering pain, merely envy he’s had a fulfillment so rich. 

::I’ll be a serf, in an impossibly hard fiefdom. I’ll struggle for months before finally starving to death.::

Gr leaves to fulfill in the tenth century, and Mk ponders. In all his creations, fulfilled or abandoned just before submission, he has stuck to three or four centuries. The centuries near the end of the cycle are most interesting; the industrial revolution of the twentieth century, the networking of the twenty first, and the dwindling of the twenty second. Mk could spend the rest of existence creating for that stretch of time, and never run out of thoughts.

::I’ll be born into a rich family. I’ll party and do drugs until the day I die, and I’ll never get in trouble for it, never even consider that I could get in trouble.::

Mk thinks.

::I’ll be an organic farmer. Only free range chickens and grass fed cows. I’ll really believe in the idea, and so will my wife. Our daughter will think it’s pointless, and as soon as we age and she gains control she’ll sell the land and get us a condo.::

Mk thinks.

::I’ll be an actor on a well known, well written sci-fi show. I’ll sign things at conventions, and secretly be terrified of my overly intense fans.::

Mk thinks.

::I’ll fall in love with the woman that comes to the restaurant I wait tables at every day for lunch. It’ll take me two years to gather the courage to talk to her about something other than food.::

Mk is creating a teenager, exhausted and alone, manning a boat to escape the Uwmwa plague when someone approaches him. It’s confusing at first. It doesn’t feel like Gr, but he doesn’t interact with anyone else. As the woman gets closer though, it becomes obvious she’s a receiver. 

::Are you aware of how long it’s been since you’ve submitted?::

This is bad. Receivers don’t ask questions idly. ::It’s been a while, yeah.::

::Too long. If you cannot create a fulfillment, it is our duty to assist you.::

And just like that, Mk is somewhere else.

Everything is everywhere. Mk has spent a very long time describing things, to the most minute of details, but that’s the best he’s got. There is _so much_ , in every possible direction.

Mk’s first instinct is to collapse to the ground and wail. It’s what all newborns do. But even though everything is crashing in on him he knows he’s not an infant. He can’t sob and flail just because every sense is throbbing with new experience. He thinks it, he _knows_ it, and an instant later he’s on the sidewalk. He can feel concrete, cold biting through his jeans, rough on the palms of his hand and on his ankles where he’s not wearing socks. He can smell car exhaust, rich and muggy. He can hear music, the car nearest him is stopped at the light and it has the windows rolled down. He can taste gum, a small circle of mint on his tongue. He can see shoes, high heels making women arch, sneakers half covered in ratty hems. He thought he shouldn’t collapse, and he did. He can think things, and yet do other things. It’s terrifying.

Suddenly there’s even more input. Warmth on his shoulder, a hand, five fingers curled, light pressure. When Mk turns his head there’s more to see. More concrete, more shoes, cigarette butts, his shirt is blue, the fingers are dark brown, each fingernail has chipped paint, gold and orange sparkles.

“Are you okay?” Woman’s voice, teenager, throaty. “What’s your name?”

Something in his head says Mikey. And with Mikey comes an exploding bomb of information, like every sight sound smell touch taste is in his mind, all at once. It’s shrapnel, shredding at any control he has.

It’s been so long since he’s fulfilled that his memory of this moment of uniting is hazy. Instinctively he pushes away at it. He knows what he’s supposed to do. He’s supposed to embrace it, cling to the overwhelming sensations until they overwhelm him, until they write over his longevital self and he forgets, until he is only this fleeting fulfillment of eighty years. But he can’t. With everything he has, all the thoughts he’s built up over the last eon, Mk mentally shoves. And it works. Not completely. He doesn’t exit this fulfillment, and the universe doesn’t stop being painfully overwhelming, but he doesn’t lose his longevital thoughts either.

He can’t quite control what he’s saying. He knows that normal people don’t talk the way he’s talking, even if he’s new to it he knows he’s doing it wrong. But he still can’t make his body do what his thoughts demand.

“I need my brother,” the body’s brother, not _his_ brother, “I need to find him,” no, he doesn’t. He needs to go back where he came from, “can you take me to him,” how can he move, how can he ever move from this spot, there’s too much to hear touch taste smell see from here, even an inch in another direction would bring him more things, “I won’t hurt you, I know a lot of people hurt each other but I won’t hurt you.” How can he hurt anyone else, when he hurts so much? “I just, I need help, nothing makes sense and it’s all too much, I can’t, I can’t-”

“Okay.” She’s calm. She must think he’s insane, and maybe he is, maybe this fulfillment he just got shoved into is insane, but he can’t access Mikey right now to find out, it would be too much, he can barely handle this. But she’s calm. “Do you know where your brother is?”

A small piece of Mikey slips out, unasked. His thoughts are falling apart, he can’t even not think about something. “Great Treat.”

“Okay. I don’t know where that is, but I’m gonna find out. I’m going to stand over here and take out my phone. If you try to take it I’m going to scream.”

Mk won’t take it. He doesn’t even know if he can make himself stand up again, since apparently his body doesn’t care what he thinks.

She tells him the address. He looks at the concrete. It’s got patchy discoloured spots. Knowing his supposed location doesn’t change anything. He won’t be able to stand all the stimulus that comes from walking several blocks. A cab would probably be worse, the environment rushing past the windows at breakneck speed. Mk will just stay here until the receiver decides he’s had enough.

Her hand returns to his shoulder. “Stand up. I’ll walk with you. I can keep my hand on your back to steady you, but if you touch me, I’ll scream.” He’s not planning on touching her, air and fabric is more than enough to touch.

At the doors, it takes him a second to remember to thank her. She’s already gone. He walks in. A man with red hair quickly puts a plate on a woman’s table and rushes over. “Mikey, you didn’t tell me you were coming to Chicago!”

“Is that where I am? Ha ha ha, of course that’s where I am.” Mikey’s brain starts trying to tell him why he’s in Chicago. Mk doesn’t care, doesn’t want to know. “I’m sorry, I can’t.” Mk rushes towards the bathroom as fast as he can, bumping into several tables on the way.

There are a row of stalls past the urinals. Mk selects the biggest and sits against the wall for a second before scooting forward so his back doesn’t touch anything. The florescent light is humming. It flickers for as long as he can stand to have his eyes open. It isn’t long, there’s too much to see. The toilet is gleaming, the handle shining. The tiles have iridescent specks that glitter under the lights. The grout between them is dirtier, no longer white. Near the back of the bowl small pieces of toilet paper are scattered. When he blocks his sight it’s the the humming, the citrusy cleaner, and the coolness under his ass. It’s the same temperature as outside to begin with, but it warms up much quicker.

There are footsteps and a thunk. When Mk -Mikey Mk Mikey fuck fuck he doesn’t _know_ , how can he be both it’s too much- opens his eyes there are feet and knees on the outside of the stall. Hands, clasped together loosely. Tattoos. Someone is sitting crosslegged.

“Gee sent me to talk to you. Not gonna lie, because you can trust me. He’s maybe a little mad at you right now, ‘cause you told him you weren’t doing drugs anymore. But let’s not worry about that right now, okay? Let’s just come down nice and slow and easy, and end the trip nicely, okay?”

He doesn’t reply, and after a minute the tattooed man goes on. “I’m Pete. So, what are you on?”

“What?”

“You can tell me, I’m not gonna look down on you. Me and my friend Gabe? We’ve done all of it. Even the random shit, like 2c-b and morning glory. Especially if it’s a hallucinogen. And I’m not gonna look down on you for not quitting either. We’ve never quit anything, we just don’t do it for awhile. So what did you take to make the Greyhound easier?”

The answer is nothing, of course, but the man is trying to help. He knows he should give back something.

“Dunno. It was a going away present from a friend.” Half a lie, half truth. More of Mikey is leaking. Mk knows Mikey was planning on staying here at least a few months. He sold almost all his belongings to cover the ticket, and the rest is in two suitcases in a hotel a few blocks from where Mk began to fulfill.

“Well, that’s okay.” Pete soothes. “You already sound more with it.” 

Pete keeps up a steady banter. It should make things worse, a constant assault on his ears. But it’s not. It’s almost nice. Better than the fluorescent lights, or the gritty dirty grout.

Eventually Mk can interrupt. “I want to go back to my hotel. Come back tomorrow.” It’ll give him time to figure out if he can stand to be both Mk and Mikey. He’s not supposed to have a choice. Once you submit a request a receiver lands you in a body as close as possible, anywhere in Earth’s cycle, and you fulfill that for the lifespan before letting someone else give it a go. But he’s not Mikey, he’s not sure if he can be Mikey.

“Good idea. It’ll gimme time to talk Gerard out of giving you a disappointed brother speech. I’ll go distract him, you run out.”

***

He walks into Great Treat the next morning around eleven. He’s wearing the same hoodie he was wearing yesterday. Gerard and Pete look the same too; black jeans and red shirts. They don’t match, it must not be a true uniform. Pete’s jeans are skintight, phone that he’s probably not supposed to have outlined clearly by the tight pull of the denim, and Gerard’s are baggy. Gerard’s shirt is plain and Pete’s has pinkish bleach marks.

“You came back! Dunno why you did, but yay!”

It’s because he thought all night, thought until he realised he was still _thinking_ , and he decided being Mikey wouldn’t destroy Mk. He can’t say that though. Pete wouldn’t understand. So instead he just says hey.

“I am pissed off at you.” Gerard is all but raising his arm and directly pointing at him. The grumpy look on his face is enough, Mikey doesn’t need additional body language cues.

“Uh. Sorry?”

“You don’t even know what you’re apologising for, so don’t. It’s not ‘cause you came here high. You fell off the wagon. Well, shit happens. Or maybe you think you don’t need to give up everything, if it was just prescriptions giving you problems. Whatever, that’s your choice. I’m pissed because last night was your first night in my state, and you didn’t spend it with me, and I didn’t even know if you were coming back. I should have gotten those hours, Mikey.”

“Sorry?” he offers again.

“Pete, I’m belatedly calling in sick.”

“Great, see you later. I want a crack at Mikey Way, brother extraordinaire.”

“After I get mine,” Gerard promises. Mikey just stands there as Gerard heads into the kitchen and a minute later comes out with a backpack and a hoodie pulled over his shirt.

“So we should go get your stuff. I dunno how long you’re staying here, but there’s no reason for you to be in a hotel. Assuming you’re not already staying with someone.”

Mikey begins to retrace his steps as he answers. “Right. Gee, who am I supposed to know besides you?”

“Don’t gimme that. You know people everywhere.”

“Not here. There’s just you. Though Pete seems pretty cool.”

“Pete’s crazy,” Gerard says, a bit of edge in his voice.

“So are we.”

“No, legitly. He’s been committed.”

“Yeah, and we both moved halfway across the country for rehab, so.” Mikey’s not ready to drop Pete on someone’s say-so. Not yet, not until he’s pulled a knife, and maybe not even then. He’s done some pretty fucked up things while on or looking for more drugs. Everyone’s entitled to be fucked up and moronic or dangerous every once in a while.

“I hope that’s not why you came. All it means is you don’t know the dealer’s selling clean shit. If you’re not done, go home, buy from friends, be safe.” 

“I’m done, really, I am.” Mk is sure he’s telling the truth. Once he fulfilled as a crystal meth user. He died using, never wanting to stop. Mikey wants to stop.

Gerard doesn’t stop in the lobby. Instead he follows Mikey to the cluster of elevators. The person at the desk is the same each time Mikey has walked by, she must be racking up crazy overtime. That or she’s triplets. Whoever she is, when he happens to glance back at her she’s staring at them in a way that’s purely sexual. It’s pretty clear what a guy coming alone to a hotel for two days and then bringing another man along means in her head. Mikey wants to tell her to stop being a perv, he’s with his _brother_ , but it’s not like she knows that. Objectively speaking, Gerard is pretty good looking. He decides to not make a scene, and just gets in the elevator when it comes.

Leaving now is a waste of a night’s rent. It’s past noon which means he’s being charged for another day. But Mikey knows Gerard would flip if he even tried to suggest staying another night. There would be long rants about stinginess, and skewed priorities. Mikey can really do with avoiding that. Besides, it’s not like it’s a five star hotel he desperately wants to stay in. There are no bugs, but the sheets are over-starched and the carpet is painful to walk on, each fibre sharp as razors.

All of his stuff is still in the suitcases, and the suitcases have wheels. It’s a matter of seconds to take a handle and make Gerard grab the other and out they go. He can’t help but wrinkle his face at the woman at the desk as he puts the key into her well manicured hand. Her thickly applied customer service smile is the only reply.

“Normally I take the train to work, but let’s take a cab. It’s easier, and quicker, and there’s a place to put your shit.” Mikey can’t disagree, especially if Gerard is paying.

It’s a small apartment, a bachelor. It’s immediately obvious Gerard cares more about his passions than personal comfort. The nook that Mikey’s pretty certain is supposed to be for a bed is filled with a deep table, supplies covering it. The living area is covered in posterboards of sketches. The kitchen isn’t exempt from the artistic explosion either. The few cabinets have postcard sized sketches and prints on them in a taped collage, the tea towels are horrible attempts at embroidery. Nothing is stainless steel, of course, it’s not an apartment that would get on HGTV. The ceiling has yellowish water stains. And a quick glance makes Mikey think the window in the bathroom wouldn’t open, even if the ledge wasn’t covered in action figures. But it’s nice enough, and enough like Gerard’s room at home in Jersey that Mikey can feel comfortable.

“No hidden guest room,” he comments, half a smirk in his voice.

“Yeah, no.” Gerard answers, rifling his splayed fingers through his hair. His roots are showing. “This is my futon. Now it’s our futon. I mean I guess you could rent a place, after you get a job. But you’re welcome to stay here forever. It’s not like I have a girlfriend or boyfriend to bring home.”

“Whatever, we’d just Scott Pilgrim it up, pull a Wallace Wells.”

“Which reminds me, jerk off in the bathroom, not on the nicest piece of furniture I own.” 

Mikey’s had a lot of hookups in the last year. He never had sex for drugs, but most of his dealers were hot enough and bi enough that after the deal went down he or she’d want to do something. Mikey wasn’t known for saying no. It’s been a while since he’s jerked off. Still, it doesn’t seem like a hard rule to keep. He moves his head in an approximation of a nod.

“I dunno. It’s all pretty self explanatory, really. Chicago tables and fridges aren’t different than Jersey’s. Touch my copics and I murder you. You wanna make a rule, I’ll listen. I dunno. Can we just sit down and talk?”

“Okay.” The futon is incredibly squishy, comfortable as a pillowtop mattress. Which is good, considering half of it will be his bed.

The silence is awkward for a minute, then Mikey breaks it with a shrug. “What do you wanna talk about?”

“I...dunno?” Gerard looks at his knees for a second. “Wanna watch Naruto?”

“Sounds good to me.” Mikey likes the show, could spend an entire afternoon marathoning it. And it’s not like they won’t talk through all the tedious recaps, longer than the actual new scenes. It’s just easier to talk over something than into the silence.

***

For a few days Mikey stays at Gerard’s, barely moving from laying on the futon to sitting up on it. He doesn’t even bother to lock it into upright position one day, just sits cross legged from Gerard leaving in the morning to coming back in the early evening. He used to be the guy that always had to be doing something, on his way to somewhere or from somewhere, with three back up parties and a handful of pills or a dimebag of powder or a ziploc of plant matter in his backpack. He’s not sure how much of that he can still be, while taking away the other parts. So he just stays inside.

It’s not like it’s a hardship. It’s impossible to be bored with all the entertainment stacked in vintage milk crates beside the tv. All the comics and movies are new for Mk. Past fulfillments were a lot of things, interested in Marvel or DC wasn’t one of them. Well, one liked the XMen quintet. Turns out though that the comics are much different. For Mikey they’re beloved rereads.

Everything is like that. Everything is new and slightly overwhelming for Mk, when he allows himself to settle to the fore. Everything is recognisable for Mikey, a source of memories good and bad.

Mk is staying nearer than he thought he would be. He gave up control in the hotel, decided to let himself fade, even though -maybe because- his initial resistance made it that he couldn’t disappear entirely. He didn’t think he’d much more than an observer, but as soon as Mikey noticed the differences Mk got drawn forward. His longevital self is a coping mechanism possibly no one on Earth has ever had before. It’s probably not healthy, it might even make him more insane in the long run. But for now, it’s working.

Mk can’t do the actual interactions with Gerard. He doesn’t have the background for it, the wealth of memories to understand even half the references Gerard is making. Besides, if he’s entirely in charge there’s too much to see-hear-taste-touch-smell that only Mikey’s lifespan of control can help him filter away. Each time Mikey is shocked by things that have been added to or taken away from though, Mk takes over while he retreats. There are surprisingly a lot.

One of the additions that bothers Mikey the most is that Gerard has boas knotted and used as curtains. Mikey only remembers Gerard owning three, each purchase for an occasion. Now Gerard’s got ten or fifteen; enough to block all the sunlight with tufts of black and white and red and pink fluff. Gerard’s had an entire year of being a diva and friends mocking him for it that Mikey wasn’t there for.

Another that bothers Mikey is the complete lack of jello in the fridge, and jello mix in the cupboard. It was the only thing Gerard could eat when he was rolling on E. Towards the peak of his addiction he had an entire cabinet drawer of it. He’d sort the flavours into a pattern, lime against apricot against strawberry-kiwi to make a plaid.

Gerard is not the same person. Mikey gets it, logically. The simple act of moving away could account for the difference. Rushing to find a job and a place to live has to change someone. When you add on kicking a habit that provided constant joy, leaving an also using girlfriend, living alone for the first time... It’s no wonder he’s different. It’s just a bit much to face. They’ve always been extremely close. As Ella once said, ‘revealing torrid secrets on Jerry Springer in five years close’. Not that that’s in any way _true_. They’re just brothers, nothing gross. Now though, for every item that he looks at with a good memory, there’s something else he sees that tells him he doesn’t know Gerard as well anymore.

After a week of hermitting, Mikey decides to make a change. Gerard wakes and starts getting ready for his shift and Mikey changes from fleece pyjama pants to tight jeans, throws a hoodie over the shirt he’s been wearing for three days and heads to work with him. He can’t stay in a single room forever, especially not one that has B horror he’s never watched and anime prints he’s never seen.

Pete’s at Great Treat, of course. He’s apparently always there, just like Gerard. Some combination of wages and actually liking the owner makes for employees willing to work seven days a week. Pete’s the day server, Gerard has swing shift and some guy actually named Clete is close. Mikey follows Gerard to the staff room as he puts his soda in the fridge then follows him back out. Pete is leering at the chef, who’s making eggs. He takes a break for a second to flash Mikey a grin, then it’s back to perving on the six foot five guy.

Mikey wants to smile back. He does. He wants to be friends, but they need to get something straight first. Certain shit gets a stigma, better he be honest now than Pete be stunned and disgusted later. “Hey. I’m an ex-junkie.”

“Yeah, I told you when you were sketching out I didn’t care. I don’t bullshit, not even when I’m babysitting.”

“Just thought I should get it out of the way.” Mikey’s not sure how seriously Pete is taking him. He still hasn’t stopped leering. But if it’s said, that’s all that’s important. Pete can’t claim later he didn’t know.

“Consider it, like, put on an out of reach shelf, like hope for a widower.”

“That’s dark and slightly emo.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a lyricist, so.”

“Shit, really? Let’s hear.”

“No.”

Mikey checks for sharp implements, or food, then hops backwards to sit on the edge of the prep table. “Recite, bitch.”

“Said lyricist, not lead singer. I have a thrash metal voice, I do electronic rock. Shit, I don’t even back up. But you can hear the dulcet tones if you come to our show tomorrow. Cover’s fifteen, but we’re totally worth it.”

The cook adds his two cents, Gerard a silent neutral off to the side of the kitchen. “As much as I don’t wanna ego stroke Wentz-”

“Oh Kevin, stroke me just like that, all night long. Oh Kevin. Ohhhh, Kevin! Ohh-”

Kevin completes his sentence loudly over Pete faking an orgasm. “The band is pretty sweet. I’d check it out, if not this weekend then soon. They play every Saturday, they’re like a house band.”

“Well, it’s not like I’ve got anything else to do.”

***

The second time Mikey goes to see Intelligent Motion the experience is a lot better.

Some of it is just the small stuff. He knows what to wear to fit in. The first time he went only one person in the entire club was wearing black jeans rather than medium tone denim, and half the guys were wearing chokers. He wore the right shade completely accidentally then, now it’s on purpose and with a bit of red leather around his neck. He knows now where the bathroom and coat check are. Like he learned the first night, it’s not a layers kind of club. He knows what’s allowed. It’s the kind of place that calls itself ‘straight friendly’, but has more men and women dancing together then men and men. Women and women together don’t count, they come in packs.

Some of the reasons it’s better are bigger.

Now he knows what Pete’s words sound like. They come alternatively out of a skinny redhead and a curvy brunette, the first band Mikey’s seen with two lead singers. It’s not a shtick, or if it is it’s a heartfelt one, not like guys that add ten strings to their guitars just to impress others. Personally Mikey likes the voice of the guy a little better, but it’s obvious Pete wouldn’t be happy without both. The lyrics are interesting, more dark than light. They make Mikey want to crawl inside Pete’s head, see what else he’s thinking.

Another big difference is Gerard’s not with him. Last Friday when Gerard was with him it was literal, at every instant he was within arm’s reach. Mikey gets it, he does. Club scenes are tempting for users, a cornucopia of things to buy. It was the first time he’d been out since quitting, his brother only wanted to make sure he was okay, since he was insistent on coming. Mikey’s pretty sure it bothered Gerard more than him though. One too many pretty girls with a glow stick reminding him of his old times. 

Mikey didn’t act. He wasn’t trying to impress his brother with an indifferent demeanor, he really just didn’t care. By the end of the night Gerard thought he’d be okay by himself the next time. And so here he is, alone.

Gerard’s only goal might have been support against buying a new stash, but he had also cockblocked royally. Pete had been really good in bed last Thursday. As soon as they were done Mikey had started composing reasons to have it happen again. Establishing friends with benefits was hard when you only knew the friend for one work shift. He’d figured a post show adrenaline high would lead to handjobs in the front seat of Pete’s van. It might have, under different circumstances, but any hope of Pete coming on to him after the set were quickly dashed by Gerard not leaving them.

Sexual tension isn’t the only reason Mikey comes to the show again. He liked their sound just as much as he likes their bodies, though there’s no doubt that they look good on stage. Even if he wasn’t interested in a second go with Pete, he’d still make his way to where the band is funneling out a side door a short time after their set. Mingling is an important part of being a band, especially a house band. If the house decides you’re snotty that’s probably the end of it.

Mikey avoids making a beeline, not wanting to seem overly desperate. That and he’s struggling through a pit dancing to recorded music as the next band sets up. It’s not going against the flow of traffic as much as being a needle punching through leather; possible but difficult. By the time he’s in the opposite corner of the room they’ve semi-scattered. The drummer is nowhere to be seen. Pete is grinning like a fool at nothing in particular. Patrick is sucking back a bottle of water with a straw. Bebe is talking to a few girls that rush up to her. They’re all sweaty and sparkly from the handfuls of glitter the girls at the front threw. Mikey would have sex with all of them. The drummer too, if he came into existence. He’s about ninety percent gay, but women like Bebe definitely make the ten percent.

In the end though they’re all a little too spread out to hit on together, and Pete is first priority. Patrick might not be gay, and Bebe might not be straight. Mikey knows Pete is a sure bet, and a fun bet beyond that.

“What you doin’ after you leave?” He doesn’t quite have to shout be be heard, the speakers aren’t pumping that loud away from the dance floor.

“Didn’t have much planned. Why?”

“You wanna hang out?” Mikey sincerely hopes Pete’s reading into the words to get the message Mikey left in them.

“Yeah, cool.” Pete pulls out his cell, and Mikey attempts to not look like he’s hanging on every word. A moment later Pete looks up.”Yeah, it’s just you, me, and Travis for midnight pancakes.”

Clearly Pete did not get the message. That’s okay. Mikey will go anyway. It’s easier to tell a cockblocking stranger to go away as compared to his own brother.

Travis turns out to be a really tall, really hot black guy. It’s his attitude that makes Mikey immediately drop him off the list of prospects. Mikey understands the facade of calm disinterest. It’s not like it’s not all over certain music scenes. But it’s not a turn on, at least not for him. Mikey needs some enthusiasm in bed. A guy that yawns when you blow him is of no use. Even as he’s thinking it, Mk is laughing at the hypocrisy. Mikeyway has a flat tone and often a dead face. He’s just as scene as anyone else.

It’s not an IHOP, or a Denny’s. Mikey’s never heard of the restaurant Travis drives them to, though Pete seems excited. It’s either a small Chicago chain, or it’s independently owned. It wouldn’t surprise Mikey if it’s the latter. Pete’s the type that supports small ventures. The service is prompt, it’s only a moment between them piling into a booth -Pete and Travis on one side, him on the other- and a woman giving them menus. As soon as she does, Pete plucks them out of Mikey and Travis’ hands.

“Three orders of buttermilk pancakes, please. And three glasses of milk.”

She smiles. Not the customer service smile Mikey watches Gerard and Pete slip on and off like a pair of shoes, but a real smile. Mikey would be willing to bet Pete at least is a regular, just like the regulars they chat with for a few minutes at Great Treat. He can’t help but needle him though. “What if I didn’t want pancakes?”

“You wanted pancakes.”

“But what if I have gluten issues?”

“These pancakes are worth shitting yourself.” He says it with the conviction of a man that’s been in that situation. Mikey decides not to press.

“You couldn’t let me ask for a skim milk?” Travis bitches. If it can be called bitching. His tone hasn’t changed since Mikey climbed into his car.

“The menu says two percent and skim. You know as well as I do that both are one percent. No one can tell the difference.” Pete grins, and starts to fold the paper in front of him.

After it becomes a frog, Pete announces that he has to piss and wanders off. Mikey presses lightly on the pointed ass and watches it jump an inch. They’re silent for a second, then Travis frowns. “Okay, see the thing is that Pete is really shitty at accepting date plans. Any advanced notice and he’ll freak out. But friend plans don’t bother him, so we usually invite one or two people that eventually fuck off. It’s getting to be that time.”

“He’s dating you? ‘Cause you should know we fucked.” Mikey’s not saying it to be a dick to Travis, or throw Pete under the bus. It’s none of his business -or fault- what happens after this. At the very least though, Travis needs to know he needs to use condoms.

“Pete is a confusing motherfucker. Don’t pursue this, you’ll only make things harder.” Travis face doesn’t break out of it’s placid expression but Mikey can tell he means it. He’s not sure if asking questions is pursuing, so he doesn’t.

Eventually Pete comes back from the washroom. His hands immediately go for the cutlery, unrolling and rolling the napkin around the three pieces of silverware.“So, come up with a solution for world peace? Discover a ten digit prime number? Decide our after-party’s gonna be a three thousand piece puzzle? Flag down our waitress and order more strawberry jam because I need at least two packets per pancake, and there are only three packets beside the butter packets? And I think one of those is grape, actually.”

“Nah. We just discussed how Mikey needs to get laid.”

Mikey grits his teeth a little, but bottom line is it’s kinda true. If he’s going to help Travis by not fucking Pete again, he does need new prospects.

“Okay, that’s cool. I know a few guys. I’ll hook you up.”

Before Mikey can go into any kind of preferences, the woman comes by with a huge platter. The milk froth is spilling down the side of the glasses, and there’s a small mountain of packets in the triangle between the touching points of the plates. Pete’s grin couldn’t be any wider. Without taking a bite, Mikey can tell they’re going to be leaving a large tip.

***

After Pete’s shift, Mikey follows him instead of waiting the extra few hours for his brother. Pete’s got plans, of which he’s an essential part of. Mikey presumes that means they won’t be seeing Travis, even before Pete goes on to explain they’re on a quest to get him laid.

Mikey’s expecting Pete to take him to a room in a basement. The only person he’s ever known to follow through with a set up is Gerard, which happened when he was still living at home. He’s a bit better off than Gerard. For one thing he’s wearing moderately cool clothes, not paint splattered sweat pants and a shirt with cheeto dust. For another, getting laid is a somewhat sure thing. In high school the criteria for picking Boris was mainly ‘won’t mind that Gerard loves Magic’. Pete knows Mikey wants to have sex. Still, he can’t shake the feeling that instead of being the needy one in the basement he’s about to fill someone else’s need.

His expectation is wrong. Pete takes him to the fifteenth floor of an apartment block, pausing for a second to dial the correct number in the lobby to get in the locked set of doors. The walls are all white drywall, not wood panelling. The hallway smells vaguely of pot, but nothing like three week old takeout and unwashed clothing. In short, it’s pretty much the opposite of a basement.

The surprises don’t stop there. When 1524 opens, Mikey quickly learns ‘know a few guys’ has two meanings. If you’re normal it means ‘I know a few single guys, I’ll see who’s interested in a skinny guy that likes Japanese culture’. If you’re Pete Wentz it means ‘I know a couple interested in a threesome’.

It’s a surprise, not a disaster. Mikey doesn’t have anything against the idea. If they’re both happy about it then he’s down. It’s only when one person wants it and the other doesn’t that there are issues. He just needs to figure out which of the two snuggling couples Pete meant him to be with. It should soon be obvious. There’s a couple on each couch. Pete will take one of the empty spots, and the last will be with the guys he’s supposed to get closer to. Mikey just needs to stall long enough that he can observe. 

Except Pete, the fucker, sits cross-legged on the coffee table like it’s a loveseat. Fucking asshole. There are pieces of furniture that are for asses, and pieces of furniture that aren’t for asses, and the coffee table really should be the latter.

Well, there are only two options. He can sit with the two brunets, or he can sit with the two with shaggier hair. Or he can avoid the situation by sitting on the other side of the coffee table. But it doesn’t look like the sturdiest table he’s ever seen, and shattering someone’s coffee table seems like a bad introduction. Couches are better, they don’t break. Which means, yeah, he needs to choose. Mikey considers doing a hurried eeny meeny miny moe before he just goes with his instincts. The brunet on the arm of the chair is wearing pink and blue striped knitted socks, and has a grin while everyone else is just smiling. If he’s got things wrong Mikey’s at least positive Stripes won’t be offended, he’ll just point him towards Curly and Beard.

As soon as he sits down Stripes stretches his legs out over his boyfriend, and rests his heels on Mikey’s thigh. He wonders if it’s too much to grab his foot, then does it anyway. You have to start somewhere. At least slowly rubbing his thumb over the arch of Sock’s foot isn’t a tacky pick up line.

“This is Mikey. Gerard from work’s brother. He’s cool. He’s been here two weeks and he’s seen me play twice.” Mikey might have done the first as a favour, but the second time was all on his own. He didn’t do it for Pete to feel like he owes him. Still, getting repaid by being set up with a threesome is very nice repayment. “These are my friends; Brendon, Spencer, Ian, and Dallon. Normally they’re Spencer and Ian, and Brendon and Dallon, but they also swap and do orgies and stuff.”

Brendon laughs. “Orgies aren’t until there are more bodies than fingers on one hand.”

Pete rolls his eyes. “I’m pretty sure the average American would say four bodies is an orgy.”

Dallon rolls his eyes back. “I’m pretty sure the average American doesn’t know shit all about sex.”

Ian adds “thirty five percent of schools have only abstinence only programs, I think it’s something like eighty five percent promote that shit.”

Spencer rolls his eyes, apparently disgusted by the idea of teaching abstinence. Mikey doesn’t really blame him, it’s a pretty fucked system. Still, he can’t help but think of the wave at a baseball stadium and wonder if it’ll be his turn for eyeball spinning next, if everyone in the room has to do it.

The rest of Sunday evening goes about the same. Dallon’s got a bit of a monopoly on rolling his eyes, Spencer seems to prefer a bitchface and Brendon’s from of derision comes in a lilting voice, but apart from that it’s just somewhat bitchy conversation and video games. It’s nice. The most fun he’s had sober in a while.

Pete takes off first, citing a morning shift tomorrow. Ian snorts and the rest heckle, but he just shrugs it off and leaves. Mikey considers hitching a ride for a minute, then figures he can take public transport just as easily, and that’ll give him at least one more turn as Yoshi.

He’s in the kitchen pouring a glass of Coke when he senses someone behind him. A glance proves it’s two someones; Ian and Spencer are on either side of the door frame. They crowd in close and Ian gives him this look. It’s an odd combination of tacky seduction and self-mocking, like he knows how lame he’s about to be, and he’s going to enjoy it. When he opens his mouth Mikey’s expecting some abomination about falling from heaven. Instead it’s just “so Mikey, when are you free?”

“Are you making an appointment to have sex?” Not that Mikey has any problem with that. In fact, that’s sort of the point of this. He’s just...clarifying.

“When you put it that way it sounds all doctor’s office and ‘please put on this paper gown’.”

Brendon comes from out of nowhere, grinning as he reaches past Mikey to pull a juice box out of the fridge. “I’ll have you know neither of them have a medical fetish. You could wear a short white plastic skirt and and a jaunty cap with a cross and neither would care.”

“We’d care,” Ian clarifies. “We’d feel you up, but we just wouldn’t cream our jeans.”

“Probably.” Spencer adds. “Unless you looked really spectacularly good.”

“I look spectacularly good in everything,” Mikey answers. The answer has the potential of seeming campy, but his flat tone takes the edge off.

“K, so Dallon’s saving the level, and then we’re taking off. Mikey, do you want a ride? I have no idea where you live, but you can direct and he’ll listen.”

Spencer gives a counteroffer. “We’re just gonna be making dinner. You can stay if you want.”

This time Mikey is smart enough to spot the double meaning. He doesn’t as much as look towards the door where Dallon is cramming his feet into ratty sneakers. “Yeah, I could eat.”

The odd thing is that they actually do make a meal after Brendon and Dallon leave. It’s good, Gerard’s pizza bagels cannot compare to seasoned chicken breast and potato wedges. It’s just not what Mikey expected. He’s beginning to wonder if his innuendo meter is broken when Spencer makes an aborted move to stand up and anchors his gaze on Mikey as he resettles. “We have blueberry pie. But Ian’s gotta be up ridiculously early for work tomorrow, he needs to crash by ten. So do you want dessert or do you want to fuck?”

“We can’t do both?” Mikey jokes.

Spencer takes him seriously. “Do you have a feeder kink? You’re a bit skinny for the eater side of the equation.”

“Uh. No?”

“So what do you like?” Ian asks. “We’re pretty much open for anything. Except handcuffs.”

“Okay.” He thinks he should stop there, but curiosity gets the best of him and he continues with “why?” Out of all the kinks in the world, handcuffs are pretty vanilla. Mikey’d rather veto someone pouring hot wax on him, or suspending him by hooks in his back, if he was the vetoer.

“When I was a dumbass teen I got arrested. It was stupid shit but they made a scene to scare me straight. It worked. Totally can’t watch COPS on Fox any more, and I was raised on that shit.”

“He doesn’t wear orange jumpsuits either,” Ian jokes.

“So I don’t do handcuffs, Ian is a kinky motherfucker, anything you don’t like?”

“I dunno. Can we just keep it to bodies for now, and if it works we can try props later?” Mikey wants it to work. The last few hours have been fun, they could be good friends to have benefits with.

For just a moment Mike wonders if this was all bullshit, if this is just fantasy that Pete helped add on to. And then Spencer’s grabbing hm by the waist and slamming him against the counter. Mikey goes with the movement, following when Spencer presses his hand on his back. The laminate is cold against his face, doesn’t give him much to look at. On the other hand, he doesn’t much need a visual landscape when there are fingers snaking between his hips and the lower cupboards to unzip his jeans.

Spencer’s empathetic in his fucking. He tries several different rhythms until he finds the one that makes Mikey moan, then does his best to keep doing it. It’s better than a lot of the intoxicated sex he used to have.

When Spencer pulls out and steps away, Mikey is fully expecting Ian to step in and take his space. It’s not sloppy seconds when you use a condom. Instead he gets a minute of a hand grabbing his ass, and then come splattering his back and drooling down. Mikey lets it drip and smear against the lip of the countertop as he turns and waits for one of them to stroke him off. Ian steps up and makes quick work of him.

After a minute or three Spencer speaks. It’s perfect timing, not long enough to let an awkward silence begin, not short enough to make Mikey feel rushed. He’s either a natural, or he and Ian really have picked up as many guys as Pete’s orgy comment insinuated. “I’m pretty sure Brendon programmed all our numbers into your phone?”

“Yeah, he did.”

“Good. You should call us then.”

Mikey takes it for what it is; a polite brush off. He grabs a paper towel and cleans himself up, or at least what of it he can reach. Then he zips up, puts his shoes on, tells them to have a good night, and leaves.

***

“You made the right decision,” Brendon says, picking up a top hat with green fibre-optic threads creating a grid on it. “They always get dessert from Super One, and it can’t compare to Pete’s pie from Great Treat. I dunno if you’ve had any, but that stuff is the shit.”

Mikey nods solemnly. “With such a ringing endorsement I’ll give it a go.”

Dallon turns from where he’s checking out his hat in a hanging mirror. It’s a newsboy, bronze with thin copper and gold chains attached. It’s awesome, it just doesn’t suit him at all. “If Jesus Christ himself Rose again, I’d recommend he eat that pie.”

“If that time travel machine in 307 worked, you could bring it to his Last Supper?”

Dallon scowls at Brendon. “Not cool, dude. Seriously, less lapsed than you are. So no, okay?”

Mikey doesn’t ask for details, just makes a mental note that God jokes aren’t gonna go over well. It’s not a big deal, it’s not like he’s constantly making God jokes. They’re on the same level as race and dead baby jokes; occasionally funny, but only with very specific audiences. You don’t make a blender joke at a daycare, and apparently you don’t mock religion in front of Dallon. It’s fine, he just needs to remember.

“Okay fine, but this hat is totally, like, fuckin’ jaunty, right?” Brendon tilts his head in what he seems have to decided is in a jaunty fashion. Instead of bursting into applause they snicker as it tumbles off to the floor.

“Not that I don’t want your patronage, and let’s face it, sweet coke-laced dollar bills. But the costume parade is in a hour, so you’ve got about fifteen minutes before my stall closes. And I’m pretty sure at least half the merch sellers have participation tickets, considering wearing your own merch and getting compliments is one of the best ways to get stuff sold. So the room is gonna clear pretty soon, depending on how long their touch ups take. So, lemme recommend you start wrapping it up, dear potential customers.”

Mikey turns to Brendon and Dallon, the first of whom is twirling the cyberpunk top hat on his index finger. “Are we going to that?”

“No. It’s a separate event, and probably more interesting than some of the panels were. So either you buy a ticket the day they go on sale, or you find someone willing to hock theirs for three times the already inflated price. We didn’t get them this year.”

“Last year I got one. I sold it and it paid for my car repairs.” Mikey’s not very surprised. Dallon’s car is shitty enough that a roll of duct tape to hold on the bumper could be considered high quality repair.

Mikey gets a hat from the seller, a nice grey knitted hat, and throws it in his already bulging merch bag. He didn’t come to the convention with a wallet full of cash, but his Visa has a lot less room than it did when he woke up to Brendon’s phone call this morning. 

They stop at one more table before they leave the giant conference room, where Brendon spends a good five minutes testing furniture made out of tires and rims. He doesn’t buy anything, which is good. Not because the items are weird. They’re weird in a cool way, like everything at this Apocalypse Con has been. It’s good because Mikey can easily picture the car falling to pieces like that scene in Blues Brothers if Brendon puts a tire loveseat in the back.

Things are a lot busier when they leave the merch room, a wave of others at their back. There are a lot more people in the hall, nearly all of whom are in costume. Mikey makes the mistake of turning left instead of right and walks straight into a bunch of ice-age survivors facing off against a bunch of invasion survivors. The melee is almost as insane as the one time he went electronics shopping on Black Friday. He only survives by opening a random door and ducking inside.

“Nearly dying at ApocCon. That’s the kind of irony that bruises.”

“Hi!” Mikey twitches at the sudden female voice, and joins the two in turning around. There’s a woman standing there, equipment around her. Her ear gauges are almost big enough to put fists through. “I put the emergency in emergency body mod. What were you thinking of?”

Dallon raises an eyebrow. “Were you here last year?”

“Yeah. Not like this, I was on a panel about fortifying apartment buildings in case of zombie attack, or raiding parties trying to fuck up your shit. This year it’s all professional.”

“A lot of call for tattoos at a con?”

“You’d be surprised. Or if you’ve attended a few, you wouldn’t be. Especially the cyberpunkers.” Dallon bristles under the accusation of ignorance, but she doesn’t rush to placate him. And why should she? Dallon’s not gonna get the radioactive symbol tattooed on his shoulder, or get a stud piercing with a brain on it. “So guessing by your slack-jawed friend you stumbled on this instead of having an idea?”

“The ice agers wouldn’t put down their torches, but the invasioners said fire attracted the aliens. Things got heated, no pun meant. We wanted to escape with our lives,” Brendon explains. 

She says something back, but Mikey doesn’t really hear it. He’s more focused on looking at her makeshift shelves and table tops. He recognises some of the neatly stocked items. “Is that hair dye?”

“You thinking about updating your look?” It’s a bite of sarcasm Mikey can appreciate. Two things he misses are the wide eyed enthusiasm of Etards and the hilarious cruelty of snowheads.

“Yeah,” he agrees, bypassing the tattooing bed to climb into the chair she has set beside the sink. It’s not a salon chair with neck support leaning directly under the water, but Mikey’s had worse. The vast majority of his dyed hair was done at friends homes when they were both using. One time Jesse sneezed and blew out half his septum mid-massage. As long as this woman doesn’t pour her bodily fluids over his scalp, it’ll be a better experience.

“What do you want?”

“I want you to decide.” It’s not like his hair hasn’t run a gamut of styles. He can probably tolerate whatever it is. If not, everything can be fixed with black dye or a shorter cut.

“Okay? Well, at least tell me what your favourite sci-fi is.”

He knows the answer is going to get him something weird before he says it. He says it anyway. “I love Mad Max.”

“I dunno if you can pull off a mohawk.” Dallon says, squinting at him.

Brendon throws up his hands, making a square with index fingers and thumbs. “I can see it.”

He keeps his eyes closed until the hairdresser is done. It’s a middling long time, the wetness and slight burning proof she’s moving beyond just cutting it to dyeing. It’s a good time though; there’s a weird but cool gothic band on in the background, and Brendon and Dallon are keeping up a non-spoilery running commentary.

The look he opens them on is fascinating. It’s asymmetrical emo bangs pushed to absurdity; they’re halfway down his face. Better yet, it’s bleach blond. Not quite as glaring as the one time Gerard forgot to take the bleach off. He’d woken up scared to wash his head, paranoid all hair would just fall out if he touched it. That had been Gerard as a beautiful white night moon. Mikey’s is more fluorescent yellow strip club sign. Brendon and Dallon are staring as he gives a few brief headbangs and his hair flies. Mikey chooses to interpret that as a good sign.

The hairdresser is grinning, clearly happy with her work. He gladly hands over his credit card so she can run it through the machine, and when there’s no tip option on the sickly green screen he hits up Brendon for five bucks. She slides it in one pocket, then pulls something out of another. “You need a touch up in a month, you call me.”

Mikey’s not sure that’s gonna happen. His I Hocked My Worldly Possessions fund is running pretty dry. But if he does get a job by then, he’ll stay loyal. He tosses the business card into his merch bag, then follows Brendon out.

“So don’t get me wrong, that was completely awesome and I’m really happy I picked up the phone when you called-” he starts.

Dallon smirks. “I don’t think your big bag of merch led us to believe you hated every nanosecond.”

“Yeah, except there is clearly a but.”

The sudden pensive look on Brendon’s face shouldn’t make Mikey so concerned and ready to backpedal. He wants hookups, maybe friends with benefits, not soulmatey ‘I bleed when you get cut’ best friends. But after nine hours of panels and epic shopping, Mikey cares. So he backpedals. “It’s not really a _but_. I’m just confused, I guess. It was awesome, and yeah I get that when you have a spare ticket it can be hard to scalp at last minute. But still. This felt a lot like a date. Like, a _lot_.”

“That’s because Spencer and Ian don’t really care about personality in their hook ups. As long as you’ve got a penis there’s enough in common that you can make it through the night. But we need to like the man before we sleep with him.”

Dallon grins. “In case you were wondering, you passed the test.”

“In case you were wondering, it was approximately when you suggested everyone have a one hour bucket list in case of a volcano or other little prep natural disaster that I decided you were awesome enough to bone.”

Mikey grins back instinctively before pulling his lips back over his crooked teeth. “I’ll tell you this because I know you’ll understand. I’m very torn between having sex with you and going to buy frames for my prints.” They’re completely amazing prints, and it’s nearly a legal crime that he wasn’t aware of the artist’s existence before. The apartment isn’t exactly lacking for artwork, but there are a few spots left on the walls he could co-op. And he could probably move some of the already hanging posters to the ceiling if he played up the Sistine Chapel factor with Gerard.

“Why don’t we make out at a frame store and the hang them at your apartment, then have sex in your apartment? Best of both worlds.”

“Well, that would be good except I gotta call my brother and tell him to leave for an hour. And we have to have sex in the bathroom because I promised no sex on the futon.”

“Okay. So we make out at the frame store, make out in your apartment, and have sex in our apartment. Or make out in the frame store, have sex in our apartment, and once you get home you can take pictures of your hung frames and text them and we’ll oooh and ahhh. Or hell, you don’t even have to go to the frame store. Me and him are accommodating.”

Mikey laughs. Sex really would be the cherry on top of the convention cake. “Fuck it, let’s just go to yours.”

***

It couldn’t look any more like a booty call than it does. Mikey doesn’t have a problem with that. At this point, five weeks to the day of Pete introducing them all, he is fully aware of what he is to Spencer and Ian compared to what he is to Brendon and Dallon. He might like Dallon and Brendon liking him, basically dating him, but he can’t fault Spencer and Ian for a sex based relationship. After all, it’s what he requested Pete and Travis find him.

Even if Mikey didn’t know what he was coming over for based on past experience, all the signs were there. He was texted to ask if he was busy. They buzzed him through the front door within seconds because they were waiting on him. They’re both only wearing robes. And Ian is stretched out on the couch, halfway between his back and side, watching porn. He doesn’t pause it when Mikey walks in, but he gives a nod hello.

“Ian had a really shitty day.” Spencer offers.

“Yeah,” he explains. “A bunch of lawyers asking me to do completely impossible shit for them. A nonstop rain of ‘could you have this done ten minutes ago’.”

Mikey smiles, though his face is eclipsed as he takes his shirt off. “Don’t think one more thought about it. Me and Spencer? We know exactly what you can handle. We wouldn’t ask more.”

He drops the threadbare Threadless article on the carpet and moves quickly to sit on Ian. It takes a second of readjustment, then he’s fucking Ian’s throat. Ian’s taking it all, not even trying to resist. The hands on Mikey’s hips are encouraging him to make it faster, not ease up.

Spencer’s hand is on his ass. Spencer’s got big hands, calloused in ways a grad student has no reason for. He hasn’t asked why, they don’t talk like that. Shit, he’s only seen the living room and the kitchen. Mikey doesn’t ask now either, just arches into Spencer’s spread fingers. Maybe after he comes in Ian’s mouth, they’ll hover over his face. Ian will like watching his boyfriend’s cock sliding into a stranger’s ass from that angle, inches away. Mikey’s sure of it. Five weeks is more than enough time to figure out what someone wants.

***

 **Dallon’s working til nine. Bored. Entertain me.**

**k**

Mikey carefully stands, not bothering to fumble for the remote to turn off the tv. He moves slowly to the front door, gathering his shoes on the way. Gerard hasn’t moved from his table in three hours. When he’s like that noise doesn’t bother him, but sudden movements in his periphery do. Mikey’d rather not be responsible for knocking Gerard out of communion with his muse, if only because he’d never hear the end of it.

They text for the first half of the ride, and then Brendon doesn’t answer three in a row. Mikey shrugs and attempts to bet a level of Plants vs Zombies five times before he gives up, a combination of jostling people and poor decision making for his plant arsenal making a loser out of him. His Facebook wall is full of old friends that can’t wait to party when he gets back. Mikey doesn’t know how to reply to any of it, so he just updates his status to A Homeless Woman Is Staring At Me and logs out.

Brendon and Dallon’s building is easier to get into than Spencer and Ian’s. The buzzcode system is broken. Instead of typing in their apartment code and waiting for them to answer so he can demand entrance and be buzzed in, there’s a glitch that makes the door automatically open if you press three. It’s not the safest, but it’s not like a lot of people randomly walk past apartment buildings and press the whole keypad with intent to kill everyone inside. As far as Mikey knows, Brendon and Dallon haven’t even complained to the landlord.

It should be a clue something interesting is going on when it’s Spencer that opens the door after his knock. Mikey doesn’t really think about it though. There are other things that have his immediate attention. First it’s trying to get inside the apartment when Spencer only opens the door a few inches. The allowance is barely wide enough for Mikey to slip through with his stomach sucked in, and he’s not exactly a big guy. And then he’s inside, and in the exactly right position to see the three naked and occupied bodies on the living room carpet. He suddenly understands why Brendon was too busy to answer texts.

Mikey turns to ask Spencer when they got here, if it was before or after Dallon got home. He isn’t at all surprised to see Spencer is nude and hard too. Really, it would have been weirder had he been fully dressed.

The only way to describe the scene is mind blowingly hot. Dallon is fucking Ian face to face, hands buried in his curly hair. Ian is sitting in the V of Brendon’s legs, leaning back so Brendon can curl an arm around him. More specifically, around his neck. It’s hard to tell how much Ian’s airway is restricted, he’s not close enough and Ian’s face is always flushed when he’s getting fucked. Ian’s got both hands braced against the carpet, a striped sock of Brendon’s clenched in one hand. It’s a physical variant of a safeword, Mikey’s sure of it.

Mikey doesn’t wait for more than a second before kicking off his shoes and doing the wriggle that always ends in his jeans being dropkicked halfway across the room. As long as they don’t blanket his boys and Ian, he doesn’t care where they land. Nothing in the world could possibly feel better than being able to grab his dick. Spencer beside him must share the opinion, his attention is just as divided between watching and stroking as Mikey’s is.

After a few minutes of taking in the sight, Spencer asks, “you want me to fuck you? Or you want to wait your turn for Ian?”

It’s a horse with equidistant buckets of oats question, except for one thing. Mikey refuses to starve himself. “I can’t have both?”

Dallon touches the lower half of Ian’s face, drawing his attention back from Brendon. “Do you want that? Mikey fucking into you, a passed on rhythm because Spencer is pounding him? You know how hard Mikey likes to take it, you want him to pass that on to you?”

The groan that starts to come out of Ian’s mouth is cut off quickly as Brendon applies more pressure. Mikey swallows hard, closes his fist a little tighter. Breathplay might not entirely be his thing, but it looks amazing on Ian. It only lasts a second though; Ian throws Brendon’s sock into the air. Brendon of course immediately lets go and everyone freezes to hear what Ian has to say. It’s not _enough choking for tonight, B_ , which would be understandable, or even _I want you to come on me Dallon_ , because he’s got a thing for that. “Before you suck my dick, or fuck me or whatever, I’ve got something to tell you.”

Mikey is instantly wary. People don’t interrupt sex with confessions unless it’s something major. But it’s probably not a sexually transmitted disease, not if Ian’s currently having sex. He’s not that much of an asshole. At least, Mikey doesn’t think. He doesn’t really know him extremely well. He’d like to, but that’s not really his choice.

“So it’s come to our attention we’ve been using you, and you’re under the ludicrous impression we don’t like you.”

Spencer interrupts with “sorry about that. Sometimes he can’t turn the professional speech off.”

“Right, because you don’t know how to stretch one paragraph to six when you have a ridiculous essay.”

“Yeah, but I don’t do it when being heartfelt-”

“We can be the big men and admit we were wrong.” Ian interrupts Spencer to tell him. “They can be boring sometimes, barely sleeping beyond themselves and us, even though they’re supposed to be open. And I bet Dallon thinks we’re slutty even though he’d never say it. And Spencer’s never gonna say this. But you’re more than just an added set of genitals and appendages. You’re a good guy.”

“Don’t tell me what I wouldn’t say.” It’s bitchy, but that’s sort of Spencer’s default, at least based on what Mikey’s seen. “Brendon and Dallon are really happy dating you, and, well, we haven’t fucked anyone else since we started fucking you. I’m not sure we date, not like normal couples. But I don’t really wanna fuck anyone else, and I don’t think Ian does, and we’d like to hang out like you and Bee and Dee do. If you want to, that is. I guess.”

“It would be cool.” They don’t really need to ask him, he’s not the one that set up the booty system.

“So if we’re done with swoon-worthy romance, can I start thrusting again?” Mikey snickers as he waves his hand magnanimously. Dallon gets back to it, Brendon carefully handing Ian the sock again.

Spencer moves close enough behind him that Mikey can smell his shampoo. It’s pear. He seems to smell different every time Mikey comes over, and the bathtub lined with more gels than Gerard would use in a year lends credibility to a theory of rotation. He hears the click of a bottle lid before he feels the cool slide of Spencer’s fingers moving down his asscrack. “I want to fuck you, Mikeyway,” he growls in his ear.

“I really want you to.” Spencer’s fingers push and Mikey thrusts forward, nearly stumbling. It would be better to do this against a wall, but then he couldn’t see what Dallon and Brendon and Ian are doing. Couldn’t see when Dallon comes and pulls out, and everyone looks at him. Spencer moves his hand and this time he is stumbling forward. He knows what he wants, knows what everyone wants, so he kneels. Spencer kneels behind him, voice pitched so that everyone can hear him.

“Brendon fucked him before you got here. Brendon and Dallon have fucked him. So make sure you fuck him hard, so he feels it.”

Logically he knows it’s not needed. Ian is hot to the touch, skin swollen. Just touching him Ian could be overwhelmed. But really, he wants to make Ian cry. Fuck him until he’s whimpering with a voice ravaged by Brendon’s choking. Mikey pulls on the condom but waits, spends a minute fingering him. He only stops when Ian starts thrashing and Brendon has to pin his shoulders.

Spencer doesn’t move much, just lets him cant back and forth. It’s almost better that way, knowing that every sensation he feels, he’s causing.

***

Mikey’s the only one showing reluctance, but that makes sense. He’s the only one about to potentially experience a scene.

Dallon drops to his knees in one slick move. “I swear I’ll blow you on the drive there and back if you say you’re good with it.”

The moderate risk of being mocked by the chef, or tattled on to Gerard the next morning is easily tempered by the idea of two blowjobs. “Deal.”

They go in two cars. Spencer and Ian go in Ian’s nice car, Ed Hardy tiger air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror, ziplock bag for trash hidden in the compartment under the armrest. Mikey, Brendon and Dallon go in Spencer’s hunk of crap because Dallon’s even shittier car is in the shop for something like the twentieth time if Spencer is to be believed. Technically they could all fit in one vehicle, except that would involve someone stuck in the shitty middle back seat. This way Mikey and Dallon have more room to stretch out.

Not that there’s a lot of stretching occurring. If anything, it’s the opposite. The passenger seat is levered up as close to the dash as possible and Dallon is crouched between Mikey’s splayed legs. Every red light Brendon twists to watch them.

Great Treat is a good middle class restaurant. It’s nothing you need to blow an entire paycheck for, but it’s not a KFC either. It’s not a tuxedo and diamond earrings place, but everyone that comes in is wearing shoes rather than sandals, and most shirts aren’t overly stained. There are servers, but no valet. Yet, when they park and approach the door is being held open. Mikey’s never come in during the evening, but he’s positive it’s not normal for the restaurant. 

For a second he thinks it’s Spencer. Ian made a light Brendon didn’t, so they’ve probably been waiting a few minutes. Then he gets closer and sees it’s Pete.

As if that’s not bad enough, when they step inside Gerard is clearly visible waiting a table. Never mind that it’s almost nine and Gerard should have been home hours ago, he and a woman are in their work colours, taking orders. The drama scale moves from potential to likely in the back of Mikey’s head, not that he can do anything about it now. Everyone’s already here, Spencer and Ian have already claimed a table.

“The blowjob was almost worth this,” Mikey mutters to himself.

Dallon picks up on it and replies “the pie will be worth it.”

Mikey’s had the pie. It’s good, but not as mind blowing as Dallon always makes it seem. He’s got some kind of fetish, Mikey’s sure of it. Instead of declaring that, he turns to Pete, who’s still near the door, grinning. “This is not either of your shifts.”

“I sent everyone subliminal Facebook messages and bribed Clete to call in sick. Move to the next level, Mikeyway.”

Mikey’d really like to point out that Pete has levels of his own to work on, such as admitting Travis is his boyfriend. But it’s a different form of interference, an unfair one. Mikey knows post freak-out, Gee’s gonna be okay with the truth. Pete’s the kind of guy that can be completely wrecked by truth. He doesn’t reply, just picks his way through the tiny aisleways between pulled out chairs and settles beside Ian. They’ve both been seated long enough to have a menu -maybe it was more than one light they missed, Mikey was a bit distracted at the time- and Mikey leans into Ian to look at his, even though he already knows everything Great Treat sells. He could work here, if they ever needed more staff.

Pete is just leading against the greeters podium, which, according to Gerard, hasn’t been used since the first week Great Treat opened. It’s not until Gerard finishes dropping off refills of fountain drinks all over the restaurant and comes towards them that Pete hurries to join him. Fucking asshole.

“Can I take your order?”

Mikey is not fooled. This is a mission of Gerard’s, he knows it. He just hasn’t figured out Gerard’s angle yet. It all depends on if his brother can see Brendon holding Spencer’s hand under the table to realise they’re more than Mikey’s friends that he’s never met. Which will be bad enough. After all their friends in Jersey, Mikey wouldn’t be surprised if Gerard tried to vet his friends for the rest of his life.

Well, he might as well get it over with. “Gerard, this is Spencer, Dallon, Ian and Brendon. We’re all having a lot of sex. Possibly also dating, but that’s more up in the air. Could we have two starters of garlic bread?”

When it’s been over a minute and Gerard hasn’t blinked, Pete deftly plucks all the menus up, then puts a hand on his shoulder to lead him away. Mikey vaguely fears what Pete might tell him, but at least whatever it is should shock Gerard enough to reboot his system.

They’re all looking at him. Even Dallon, who’s never been taught how to make eye contact, is staring. “What?”

“So _your_ stance is obviously tell your brother.”

“Yeah, what else could I do?”

“We could have been friends?” Spencer has a _duh_ tone that Mikey’s pretty sure can only come from being a professional student.

“Pete would have told him.”

“Pete is constantly full of crap, could have been lying.”

Mikey shrugs. “He’s my brother.”

Spencer answers “yeah, and I don’t tell either of my sisters, and Brendon didn’t tell his.”

“To be fair I haven’t talked to any of them since I got one boyfriend, never mind four.” He laughs like he doesn’t care, and for once no one starts badmouthing his so called family because they will carry the feelings he can’t. Brendon’s not good with grudges. Spencer and Ian are.

“It’s not the kind of thing you tell people.”

Mikey doesn’t care. “Neither is the fact that you’re an ex-junkie, but it’s the first thing I told Pete when I met him.” 

It’s basically the truth. It was the first time _Mikey_ said something. They’ve taken it pretty well too. There was already a no smoking rule at Spencer and Ian’s because Ian’s profession involves random drug testing. Now that Brendon and Spencer and Dallon think it’s a trigger for him, they only smoke when he’s not around. Mikey’s pretty sure if anything would trigger him, it would be Pete’s stories about him and Gabe, but he appreciates the sentiment.

Dallon attempts to clarify. “It’s just something you tell friends, not family.”

“Well that’s fine. Gerard’s my best friend.” The conversation gets off when the female server brings them a platter of garlic cheese toast. It’s a good thing. Mikey doesn’t have anything left to say about it. It’s not like he’s going to demand they tell their families, but he’s never living a separate life from Gee again.

***

“Let’s go to the playground.”

“I’m not having sex on the play structure. Kids use those slides, Brendon’s junk should not be going all over the slide.”

Brendon grins, headbutts Dallon lightly. “Perv. Don’t you ever just wanna swing?”

Mikey’s down for it, a vote he makes clear by grabbing the nearest hoodie. It’s probably Spencer’s; it’s white, not his own green or black, or Brendon’s blatantly girls department ones. It fits well enough that he can zip it, and that’s all that really matters.

“Token protest. We’re in our twenties?”

Spencer shakes his head at Ian. “When we were in high school there was a community club next door. We ate lunch there every day. Ryan would try to retain a bit of cool, sitting on top of the monkey bars, but Brendon just swung like he was four.”

“Hey, being four is seriously underrated.”

“Is this the part where you tell us you have a secret diaper fetish?”

“Come on, four year olds don’t wear diapers.”

“But they swing like mo-fos, so let’s go do that!” Brendon pulls the remote out of Ian’s loose grip and turns the television off like it’s a concrete move, like there’s no coming back from it.

There’s really no denying Brendon when he’s like this, not that Mikey would even want to. It seems the group’s consensus, and the next few minutes are spent grabbing hoodies and coats and scarfs and sneakers. When they’re all in a cluster in the hallway Ian asks him “could you lock the door?”

Ian doesn’t look particularly busy, but whatever. Maybe it always sticks for him or something. It’s not a big enough thing to protest against. “Sure, gimme your keys.”

“Well, these are yours, but here.”

Mikey takes the set of four. All of them have the same, but this is definitely not Ian’s cow keychain, or Dallon’s Spencer’s or Brendon’s. They all have obnoxious keychains, and this ring is empty apart from the glinting gold and silver. He bypasses thanks, considers hugging all of them before settling on asking his most pressing question. “Was the entire playground thing a set up?”

“Are you kidding? Swings kick ass!”

“We were gonna get groceries with you, but you know. Whatever.” Mikey smirks at Dallon’s answer and locks the door, because he can.

***

Spencer and Dallon are playing tag. Sure it’s a bit more violent than the kids version, a lot of hood and hem grabbing that winds up pulling both of them onto the crunchy with frost grass. But bottom line they’re chasing each other and evading each other, and smacking each other when one of them is caught. Brendon, as promised, is swinging, legs pumping vigorously. Ian is hanging upside down from the monkey bars. His hair is swinging free and his super baggy hoodie is crumpled around his armpits.

For his part, Mikey roams the equipment. There are two slides, a row of seats that look like tulips that turn automatically when weight is put on them, and his reach is long enough to grab past the bars Ian is using and not topple to the ground. Or he could just put his feet down to prevent a fall. But that’s the adult method. If Mikey starts to fall he knows he’ll let himself drop to his hands and knees in the hardened sand rather than ruin the experience.

The swings that Brendon aren’t occupying quickly lure him. His first move is to sit and start kneewalking sideways until the chain is spiralled around thirty times. Mikey grips tight onto the end of either chain, where they meet the plastic seat, and raises his knees. He wants to laugh as it starts unspiralling faster and faster, so he does. Brendon drags his heels into the sand until he comes to a stop and raises his hand for a high five. Mikey leans over, his swing still whipping, now in the opposite direction, and smacks his hand.

“I challenge you to a jump off distance contest!” Brendon declares a few minutes later.

“It’s on.”

They both start pumping their legs. Mikey knows about shit like momentum now, understands logically how it works. It’s still a kind of magic, that he can kick his legs and a few minutes later be soaring high through the air.

It’s even better when he decides he’s at the optimum height for falling forwards, not dropping straight down, and lets go of the chain. He flies, laughing, he can’t help but laugh. Brendon’s so right. Sometimes you just need to be a kid again, do kid stuff. And then he crunches into the sand, eyes automatically closing with the impact. And then he opens his eyes, and he’s not there. He’s not in the playground, and he’s not Mikey. He never really has been. That bothers him, though it shouldn’t.

::What? What’s going on? I couldn’t have hit the sand hard enough to die. That playground must see a hundred kids a day jumping off shit. None of them ever died.::

::Mikey Way did not die that night. Mikey Way tied Ian Crawford’s hands to the legs of the kitchen table and Mikey Way, Brendon Urie, Spencer Smith and Dallon Weekes penetrated him after coming home unscathed.::

::Then why am I here!:: The receiver is communicating so slowly he can barely stand it. Mk’s never felt frustration before. Annoyance isn’t an emotion one is supposed to have here.

::That’s a life. Now you make one.::

Mk used to spend ages crafting the most minute of details. He doesn’t need to think now. There’s no question he knows what he wants to fulfill.

::I’m going to have a brother a few years older than me. He’ll move to Chicago and eventually I’ll follow, in the twenty first century. I’ll have a short crush on a coworker, but I’ll get over it when he sets me up with two sets of men that make a great quad. Quintet, with me. I’ll be happy.::

He submits, and waits to fulfill.


End file.
